My Brother

Guilt brought me here, and guilt is keeping me from ringing this bell. I am tempted to run back to the airport and take that 16-hour flight back to my life. She’ll forgive me. I’ll text her something about being held up at work. She will blame herself instead of me. And I’ll be off the hook.

My thoughts are deafening. I ring the bell before I act on them. She opens the door. The smell of my childhood rushes out, “you’re here!” she leans in for a quick hug. Like I am a friendly acquaintance, not the daughter she hasn’t seen in years.

 “Alsalamu Alaikom Mama,” I say, 

“Alaykom Alsalam, I wish you’d let me pick you up from the airport,” she replies.

And weather the awkward silence between us for 45 excruciatingly long minutes? I’d rather not. “No, it’s okay Mama, you have your hands full here,” I say. She smiles and moves on. 

“Let me help you with your bags.” 

I point to the carry-on bag I am holding. “This is it,” and before she has time to think it, “I can’t stay long, work.” I try to sound disappointed. I know she is, and she would never indulge in asking for an explanation or attempt to make me feel guilty about my absence which makes me feel worse. 

I sit down as she pours us tea. We sip in silence until I ask, “Where’s Hamza?”

“At work,” she answers.

“Work?”

“Yes, he got a job bagging groceries at Abubakar’s supermarket” That’s Baba’s cousin.

“Oh,” that’s strange. My brother does not function very well in any social setting.

“He seems to enjoy it. He and Abubakar are close now. It’s been good for him.”

“Yeah, he’s nice. He’s like Baba’s age, right?”

“Yes, they were born in the same year,” she says, and then the silence is back. I finish my tea and excuse myself to go rest.

I stand in my pink bedroom. God, I miss Baba. He is the best thing that happened to us. He came into our lives and made us a family. When he married my mom, he told me that all my wishes were his demand from now on. And my first wish was a pink bedroom. I asked for pink walls, pink furniture, and a pink carpet, and he did it all. 

I can tell she cleaned the room. Nothing is out of place; there is no dust on the computer or the keyboard, or the books. “It was Hamza,” she says, coming from behind me. “He cleans the room,” she says as she places a jug of water and a glass on the nightstand.

“What do you mean?”

“Every morning when he comes back from Fajr prayer, he goes to your room and cleans it. Even puts a new trash bag in the trash can. I told him that’s wasteful, but you know he never listens to me, and then he cleans his room, cooks enough breakfast for himself, and goes to work. He even washes the sheets every Friday.”

“Why?”

“I think in case you decide to come back,” she answers.

“How long has he been doing this?”

“Since you moved to Japan, so four years?”

“When I came for Baba’s funeral, he’s the one that had cleaned my room?”

“Yes, it was him.”

“That’s really sweet” I am touched. My brother’s affections are hard to decipher.

I fell into a deep sleep. I don't know for how long. But I woke up, and it was dark out. For a moment, it felt like my whole life had been a dream. And that if I turned on the lights, I would be in my teenage body. I wanted to jump out of bed and look for Baba, but then my phone lit up and snapped me out of my fantasy. It’s 12:26 am, and I have about 40 new emails from clients and co-workers despite it being the weekend. 

Everything feels so far away now, and I don’t feel my usual compulsive need to check my emails. I go downstairs to get some food and see that the basement light is on. I go down. He’s sitting there playing video games. Sensing someone in the room, he looks up from his game but not directly at me. “Hi Hamza, missed me?”

“Yes,” he replies, eyes fixed on something on the wall.

“Heard you got a new job. That’s impressive.”

“Yes,” he says again; I sit on the couch.

“You cleaned my room?”

“Yes.” 

“That is so nice of you, thank you” I try to meet his eyes for him to see that I am genuinely grateful, but he turns away.

“Welcome.”

“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to play your game.” He grabs my arm as I get up and immediately lets go like he touched a live wire.

“Is there something else?”

“liar.”

“Okay, Hamza, I’m going back to bed.”

“I gonna come with you.” 

“You have your own bed.”

“Japan.”

“You want to come to Japan with me?” that’s a first! The “liar” part I am used to.

“Yes.”

“And what are you going to do in Japan?”

“Work in the Japan supermarket.”

“What’s wrong with the supermarket here?”

“I don’t want here,” he says slowly, struggling with the longer sentence.

“Hamza, I really have to go back to bed. We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

“Brother and sister together,” he says, still avoiding eye contact. I’m heavy all of a sudden, weighed down by the gravitational pull of guilt. “Hamza, I really need to sleep,” I lie.

“liar liar liar” he repeats in a monotone. I regret coming so much.

In the morning, some family members come over for breakfast. We pretend that we are just another happy family. I kept eating to avoid engaging in small talk, but it didn’t work.

I notice Abubaker in the crowd, and I go to greet him. He has a big smile when he sees me, reminding me of Baba’s. “Hello, stranger,” he says, and we spend some time catching up. He tells me about how great Hamza is at his job, that the supermarket has been so clean and organized since he started working there, and that everybody loves him except the cleaning lady, who he loves to micro-manage. I laugh at that and tell him about life in Tokyo. My apartment, my co-workers, my sushi addiction, and leave the part where I basically live in the office and go to bed with my laptop. It’s not even about the work anymore. It’s like I’m running away. 

The first word I heard my brother say was “liar.” He was fourteen, Baba got him a speech therapist. It started with letters. He would hold items around the house and make the sound of the first letter. He’s always been rough with Mama. He did not like her, but she took care of him anyway, made him food washed his clothes, and nursed him when he was sick. In return, he screamed at her and pushed her if she tried to touch him. Until he learned the word liar, and it was all he ever called her to this day.

“He talks about you sometimes,” Abubaker mentions.

“Hamza?”

“Yeah, he says he’s going to live with you in Japan and that he’s leaving ‘liar’”

“Unbelievable.” 

“That’s why he has taken this job. Came to me himself. Wants to make money to buy a plane ticket.”

“That’s insane,” I say, annoyed.

“Why?” Abubaker asks.

The question surprises me “Because-” 

He doesn’t let me find my thoughts. “To him, you are his only family. That’s all he wants; really, if you think about it, he doesn’t want anything else from life. Just for things to be where they belong,” he says as if it is that simple.

“Come on, how is that going to happen? I’m just going to carry this grown man around my neck for the rest of my life?” my tone is harsh this time, and a few people turn to look at me.

“I’m just telling you what he told me, Faten,” 

“Sorry, Abubaker, I didn’t mean to..”

“That’s okay. Pass by the store before you fly out, okay?”

“Yes, sure,” I answer, even though I know I won’t. 

Walking around the backyard, I remember my first day of school. I was six. Mama was going to drive me. As soon as she said, “Say goodby to your brother,” he ran towards me, tackled me to the ground, and refused to let go, I was crying and screaming, but he kept holding on. She tried everything. Eventually, she gave up and went back to the house and took her shoes off. That’s when he started to let go of me. I had fallen asleep from all the crying. The next day she took us both. And the next and the next until he got used to the idea of me being in school. I could never stay late or go out with friends after school; otherwise, his tantrums would be extreme even when I left for college. Leaving home after the holidays was always a challenge. At some point, I decided it was not worth it. And I stopped going back home.

I see him walking towards me, his eyes on the ground. He is older and taller than me but somehow a child. “I gonna come with you,” he manages to say.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes,”

“No.”

“Yes,”

“Hamza, stop that. You can’t come with me. You have to stay with Mama.”

He grabs my hand and leaves it immediately and then grabs it again, “No Mama. Liar.”

“You have to stop saying that!”

“Liar liar liar-”

“Stop that”

“Liar liar liar-” the word flows out of him like a waterfall.

“What is wrong with you” I am aggravated.

“Liar liar liar-”

I snatch my hand out and walk away. He follows me, his voice getting louder.

“Liar liar liar”

“Shh, there are people here,” I whisper, but I need to get away from him

“Liar liar liar” he is so loud I can’t bear it.

As if my hand has a mind of its own, it meets his face, and I hear a loud smack and even louder shrieks from the people hanging out at the front of the house. He’s quiet. Everything goes quiet. Shame pours over me. Then his voice comes back again “liar liar liar” I start to run, and he runs after me. I am running as fast as I can. Sweat and tears cover my face, and my legs burn, but something compels me to run. We run through the neighborhood. I startle when I hear screams of joy from behind me. I stop and turn to face him in front of someone’s garage. When he sees that I have stopped, he taps me and starts running in another direction. “Can’t catch meeeee” and suddenly I am running again. I run after him and run and run and run. And I reach out for him with the tips of my finger, which only makes him go faster until I grab his shirt, and he falls to the ground, and I fall next to him on someone else’s lawn.

“I’m sorry I slapped you,” I say between breaths.

“I forgive you,” he says, facing the sky.

“Aren’t you going to say sorry to me?”

“No.”

“Fine,” I laugh.

“I saying the truth.”

“Hamza, I know you think you are saying the truth, but it’s not real; it is only in your mind, okay?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, but it is.”

“I no forgive you.”

“She is your mother, Hamza, and my mother, and she didn’t lie to us or kidnap us or steal us or none of that.”

“No No No,” he says as he reaches into his pocket and holds out a picture.

“What is that?” I ask 

“Mama.”

“No honey, that’s Aunt Taleen.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Hamza how is Aunt Taleen Mama? She died before I was born.”

“No No No” He shakes his head intensely.

“Where did you find this?”

“Liar room.”

“When did you find this?”

“6 January 2023”

“Hamza, this woman died more than 30 years ago.”

“No No No”

“Okay, fine, this woman is our mother, so what now?”

“Leave liar.”

“Hamza, you can’t come to Japan with me, you don’t have a passport or any money, and I can’t take care of you. I have my own life there. I’m busy. You can’t come.”

“Please Please Please-”

“No, stop it. Look, this was fun. Let’s keep it fun. Okay? Wanna play in the park?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ll go swing by myself then.” I start walking, and moments later, he follows me.

My mom has told me the story of her sister, Taleen. She rarely talks about her, but when she does, she becomes more sorrowful and gloomy than usual. A car crash killed her and her husband. She was pregnant too. My real father was with them. None of them made it. She showed me this picture when I was little. It seems that Hamza has never seen it before.

I wake up before the sun. My flight is in 6 hours. I need to get some work done before. I hear Hamza coming back home from prayer, so I turn off the lights. I pack my bag, get dressed, and book an Uber. I carefully take the stairs down, thinking everybody is asleep. I make it downstairs and find Hamza sitting next to the door with a suitcase, his shoes neatly placed next to the door. This is going to be difficult. I ignore him, put my bag by the door, and open the fridge to see what’s in there. Mama comes down moments later. She tells me to have a safe trip and to message her when I arrive. My phone rings, signaling the Uber's arrival. I go out, put my bag in the trunk, and another car pulls up. It’s Abubaker.

He rolls down his window and says, “Good morning,” I return the greeting inquisitively. 

“I’m here to take Hamza to the airport,” Hamza walks out, puts his bag into Abubaker’s trunk, gets in the passenger seat, and they drive off.

When I arrive at the airport, they’re already there. Abubaker waves to me, and I walk over, “Can someone explain what is happening?” I ask.

“Hey Hamza, I hear the airport has a really messy supermarket. Why don’t you go see if you can help?” Abubaker mentions.

“Yes,” Hamza replies and leaves hesitantly. Abubakar turns to me. “Let’s sit,” he says, and I comply.

“He’s right, you know.”

“About what?”

“About everything, your mother has kept things from you.”

“Like what?”

“Look, Faten, Hamza is autistic, not delusional.”

“Yes, but he can’t tell the difference between reality and what’s in his head.”

“Yes, he can. He was four when it happened, and Nahla tried to convince him it didn’t. She tried to change his reality completely, but he remembers.”

“What happened?”

“The car crash, he was in the car. He watched his father die, but his mother never did. Nahla’s husband was with them and died that day too.”

“What?”

“Look, Saleh thought you should know, but she told him, if you don’t like how I raise these children, then you should leave, and as you know, he did for a while. As a stepdad, he never really had a say.” At the mention of Baba, I start to cry.

“I don’t understand.”

“Nahla is not your mother. Your real mother is Taleen, and she’s not dead. The crash caused her severe brain damage; she has been in a care facility since. You were born that day. They had to take you out of her prematurely, and luckily you survived. Nahla was your next of kin, she became your guardian and later adopted you and Hamza, and that’s it, that’s the whole story.” He quiets down and looks at me. I know I look as terrible as I feel, and he sympathizes. “I know this is heavy, but Nahla had her reasons. She didn’t want you to carry that load; she wanted you to have as much of a normal childhood as possible without visiting a mother who is mentally absent or a father’s grave.” 

I laugh, “A normal childhood” It's strange hearing this explained to me instead of having to piece together my brother’s words to try to understand. Somehow hearing the truth feels like it has always been something I’ve known but chose to ignore. Telling myself my brother was not in his right mind was always the easiest way out.

“Look, if you want, you can come stay with us. Have some time to think, and when you’re ready, I’ll take you to see your real mother. Nahla doesn’t need to know.”

“No, I need to leave now,” I start getting up. I never should have come here. I promise myself I’m never coming back here, and I won’t break the promise this time.

“Okay, let me call Hamza.”

“No.”

“He wants to say goodbye.”

“No.”

“Look, I promised him I would explain everything to you, and he promised just to say goodbye and go home without getting upset. Even though he has hope you’ll take him once you know.”

“No, I don’t want to see him.”

“But I promised him.”

“I appreciate all your doing, taking in my brother and trying to help me, but I need to leave. Goodbye,” I turn around and speedwalk towards the gate. I pass the supermarket, and I hear Hamza calling after me. I start to run my boarding pass already opened on my phone. I scan it and run right through the gate. I keep running even though I’m inside. He calls after me as he tries to jump over the gate. A security guard catches up to him. I keep running. Like I always have and like I always will.